


The One Where The King Of Hell Raises A Mastermind And An Overlord

by tazia101



Series: What The Hell Am I Writing (Crossover Series) [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Background Misha/Jensen - Freeform, Background Misha/Vicki, Background MorMor, Character Death, Gen, I think that's it - Freeform, some violence and torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-07-08
Packaged: 2018-03-18 00:01:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 6,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3548519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tazia101/pseuds/tazia101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Children. In Hell?” Crowley eyed the bundles being held by the two demons. “Interesting.”</p><p>Pretty much, Misha and Jim are two unwanted twins. For their disposal, their mother sells their soul, and they are brought to Hell. Crowley decides to raise them as Princes of Hell. Misha and Jim's lives as kids, and later as adult rulers of very different domains. </p><p>The first story in the 'What The Hell Am I Writing' Crossover series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Year One

**Year One**

****

“What do you mean, _children_?” Crowley asked, leaning back lazily on his throne.

“It was the deal, my King. Two babies gone, for the mother's soul in ten years.”

“ _Children_. In Hell?” Crowley eyed the bundles being held by the two demons. “Interesting.”

On one hand, it could be a pain. Easier, perhaps, to simply get rid of them… but children’s souls always went straight to Heaven, and more souls for the angels was not high on Crowley’s list of things he wanted to provide.

On the other hand, it was a throwback to the olden days in Hell, when deals could be make for a soul or for a first-born child. Then the children were raised below, half-human, half-demon, with the mortal body they were born with and a soul of the damned, usually heir to titles such as Dukes and Knights of Hell. 

Crowley had made huge changes to Hell, modernizing it, making it better to live in and easier to operate. But many of the demons were unsettled by the changes, used to living (or what was close to it) one way for centuries or millenia, only to have that mode of existence completely switched around with the introduction of a new King.

Yes, perhaps it was time to bring some tradition back to the halls of Hell.

“Do they have names?” Crowley asked.

“We didn’t ask,” answered the red-headed demon on the left.

“Idiots,” Crowley muttered, and pushed himself up to come down the steps, straight up to the demons, who flinched slightly. At least they were properly afraid.

He reached out a hand and pulled back the blanket slightly. The baby looked… very much like any other baby, he supposed. Little wisps of hair on its forehead, eyes closed, chubby-cheeked and painfully innocent. Unmistakably of Heaven’s reign, not belonging here in the dimension under the Earth.

“It’s a boy?” 

“Both of them are,” answered the dark-haired demon holding the one he was inspecting.

“This one’s name is ‘Jim,’ then,” Crowley said. Plenty of people named ‘Jim’ in Hell, and it was a regal name. ‘Prince Jim,’ that sounded _right_.

“This one’s waking up,” the red-head noted, tilting the baby up uncertainly.

“You’re holding it wrong,” Crowley told him, reaching out almost automatically to take the infant, settling it into his arms easily.

He remembered when his son had been this small, fitting perfectly into the curve of his arms. That had been before his wife’s death, of course, before a lot of things, and he vaguely remembered being sleepless but happy in the nights that followed.

It was a memory that had almost been lost to the countless years of torture, jumping back to the front of his mind as he looked down at the scrunched young face of the child in his arms, looking up at him with wide blue eyes. 

“We’ve got to name this one too,” Crowley said, absentmindedly bouncing him twice, watching the baby’s mouth curve up into a smile, eyes half-closing to accommodate the expression.

“Michelle,” the red-head said.

“Good idea,” Crowley replied. “Except he’s not _female_.”

“Michael?” the other one suggested. “No, that won’t work… Milo, Mike, Mish… Misha, that’s a name, isn’t it?”

“ _Misha_?” the first one said doubtfully.

“Misha,” Crowley said, and made his way back up to the throne with the child, lying back down with him propped up against his legs, neck supported by one of the King’s hands. “Who’s the eldest?”

“Didn’t ask.”

“Of course not. Well, both of them will be Princes, and we can ask their mother when she gets down here.”

“Very clever,” said the red-head, who Crowley had noticed had a habit of sucking up. It faintly irritated him.

“Find me a woman who died in childbirth.” She would be able to feed the children. Crowley touched his finger to Misha’s nose and the baby opened his mouth slightly, giving him a surprised look. “And fed with the milk and blood of the damned, they shall be neither human nor demon, but ever between the worlds,” he murmured to the baby, with all the solemnity of a well-known quote.

The newly-named Jim woke up, looked up at the demon that held him, and began to cry. The piercing wails travelled across the room, and Misha batted Crowley's finger away from his face to open his own mouth wider, balling up his small hands and started bawling. Crowley sighed, bouncing the baby, but knowing that he wasn't going to stop anytime soon. He hadn't really missed this part.

The other demons waiting outside the throne room to address their King raised their heads and listened to the sound, curious.

Change was coming to Hell once more.


	2. Year Three

**Year Three**

“Dad?” Misha put one hand against the door and stretched up as far as he could, finally getting his small fingers around the doorknob and twisting. The door swung open, and he tumbled into the room, landing on all fours on the concrete floor.

“No dad,” Jim said, coming up behind him to peek into their father’s bedroom.

“More doors!” Misha said, pushing himself back up to standing, then making his way back into the hall as quickly as he could without falling again.

“Nuhhgh,” Jim complained incoherently, but followed anyways, trailing one hand along the cold stone wall.

There was a door at the end of the hall, and Misha headed towards it, using the walls to keep himself upright. ‘ _Do Not Enter_ ,’ the sign on the door said with large red letters, but neither of the Princes was able to read yet, so it went unnoticed.

“Dad?” Misha did his best to knock, but had trouble curling his little hand into a fist, so he simply hit the door twice with the flat of his hand. “Daaad.”

“Shhh,” Jim said, irritated by the noise, and pushed Misha to one side, taking his place at the door as his twin hit the opposite wall, crying out once in protest and clearly considering tears as punishment. In the end, the toddler decided against it in favour of watching Jim put his hand against the lock, eyes narrowing then turning black as he concentrated on what they had been taught of using the demon blood running through their human veins.

The lock clicked, and the door swung open, screams spilling into the hall as the supernatural sound barrier was broken.

Jim put his hands to his face dramatically and screamed too, his young voice blending into the shrill and tortured sound. He looked to Misha with a grin, and started laughing.

Misha frowned slightly, and then abandoned him to dash into the room, running through the group of legs that was five demons standing by the door. “Dad!”

Crowley looked up from the body that was twitching under his scalpel.

“Misha.” His voice was exasperated. “You aren’t supposed to be in here. Where’s your nanny?”

“You missing,” Misha said, with wide blue eyes, and Crowley sighed.

“Dad!” That was Jim, skittering up beside his brother.

“It’s _King_ , not ‘dad,’” Crowley grumbled, putting the scalpel down and wiping the blood off his hands onto the white apron over the front of his suit (already almost soaked through with red). “I don’t know where you picked that up.”

“What-you doing?” Jim asked, climbing up the metal of the folding table to peer curiously at the man tied down onto it.

“Well, a very _bad demon_ took a whole bunch of souls, all for themselves, when they should have gone straight to me. And now I have to find them. This person,” Crowley made a slight gesture to the demon on the table, “knows where she is.”

“I can help!” Jim made it all the way up onto the table, not minding the blood that soaked the legs and cuffs of his appropriately-sized suit, matching Crowley’s. Speaking of which…

“Misha, what did you do with your suit _this_ time?” the King of Hell asked, leveling an unimpressed gaze at his heir, who was wearing a pair of red underwear and black dress shoes, with nothing else.

“Ties too…” he made a vague gesture at his neck, twisting his hands around it.

“Tight,” Crowley supplied.

“Ties too tiiiight,” Misha said carefully, trying to figure out the new word. “Fire is yaaay!” He ran around the table once, almost slipping on a puddle of blood, but adjusting himself and completing the lap to stand in front of the demon again.

“You’re a Prince of Hell!” Crowley exploded. “You cannot run around in your _underwear_!”

The boy looked up at him, and his lower lip began to wobble warningly.

“M'only twree,” he said, the same defense that their nanny used whenever they got into trouble.

Crowley was saved from having to deal with a full toddler tantrum in front of his subjects when the man on the table started screaming again. Both King and Prince looked over to see Jim wiggling a finger into the eye socket of the unfortunate soul on the table, making a scrunched face at the texture. 

“Eww!” Misha was immediately distracted, running over to get a closer look. “Have, Jim, have!” He held out his hands in a clear question.

“Hold on,” said the other, and got two fingers in, to yank the eye full out.

“She’s in California,” the demon underneath the child shrieked, the words twisted with pain. “Please, get it off, I can show you where, I’ll show you! Get it off, please, please…” the plea faded into incoherent sounds of pain.

Jim clumsily tried to toss the eye, but it fell short and rolled under the table. Misha went after it, squirming under the metal framework, getting himself covered in blood.

Crowley sighed.

Why did this _always_ happen?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What season is this in?  
> Who knows.  
> Why doesn’t Crowley think that Misha looks like Castiel?  
> Who knows. Can’t be pre-Winchesters ‘cause Crowley’s King of Hell.  
> Misha and Jim don’t actually look like they’re related but somehow they're twins.  
> They have different accents for some reason.  
> None of it makes sense. But I hope you enjoyed (and will enjoy more of it) anyways. 
> 
> If you have more problems to add to this list, or you just like the story, leave a comment? I do love comments.  
> All of it's already written, so I can't really take requests for plot twists... but I do like more odd crossover ideas!


	3. Year Six

**Year Six**

“…and on the _ninth_ day of Christmas, my true love gave to me… _nine_ swans a-flapping, eight drummers drumming, seven… umm… lords a leaping, six something something… FIVE GOLDEN RIIIINGS! Four colly birds, three French hens, two turtle doves, and a PARTRIDGE IN A PEAR TREEEE!”

Crowley was in Hell.

Which wouldn’t really be a problem if his adopted heir wasn’t here as well. In his bedroom. Singing Christmas carols. At 5am.

“Misha, _what_ are you doing?” Crowley asked, his voice muffled by the pillow he was pressing his face into.

“It’s CHRISTMAS! Wake up!” A small body landed on top of him, knocking the breath from his lungs. He pushed it off unceremoniously and sat up.

Misha was crouched on the floor where he had landed, in a red Christmas sweater, patterned with snow people, that was far too big for him, and almost reached the floor. It went perfectly with the Santa hat that had slipped down to cover his eyes, which he was currently trying to push back up.

“This is _Hell_ ,” Crowley roared irritably. “We don’t _celebrate_ Christmas!”

“Yes, we do!” Misha sprang to his feet. “C’mon, Jim n’ nanny are waiting in the throne room with presents!” His wild dash out of the room almost blew his hat off, but he put up a hand to keep it on as he disappeared into the hallway.

Crowley let himself fall back against the cushions and steal another second of peace. Then he rolled over, groaning as he put his feet firmly on the floor.

“ _Christmas_ ,” he muttered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired, of course, by: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ApVw4Bw9Cw4


	4. Year Nine

**Year Nine**

 

“He said we’re not supposed to be up here without supervision.”

“Dad won’t really mind. What’s he gonna do, _ground_ us? Come on!” The slightly taller boy bounced along, while his counterpart followed more uneasily. “Wow! I love California!” Wide blue eyes flashed excitedly around the street, taking in shops and the people flooding by. “Oh! I want that!”

Before the suited boy could say anything, the one in jeans was darting across the street, dodging the cars with a careless ease, ending up beside a younger girl on the opposite sidewalk. The dark-eyed boy couldn’t hear what his brother said to her, but she confusedly held out her ice cream, and the jean-clad boy took it with a grin, then made his way back across the street, paying careful attention to the balance of the ice cream cone as he ran.

“Come on, gotta get out of here before her mom notices,” he said, slightly breathless, and led the way into a crowd of people, which closed around them, hiding them as he took a lick of the ice cream. “Mmmm. You want some?” Jim looked at his twin, unimpressed.

“No.”

“Okay,” Misha shrugged. “Your loss.” They walked in silence for a while, as Misha worked through his ice cream. “Let’s go in here!” The young boy decided he was finished with the cone, tossed it over his shoulder, then grabbed Jim’s wrist, pulling him sideways into a rotating door, pushing against it and running around several times. “I wish we had _these_ at home!”

“We could build them,” Jim suggested, and held out a hand to stop the rotation, stepping fully into the building.

“Yeah!” Misha followed, sneakers squeaking on the polished marble floor. Both brothers looked around.

“Looks like Hell,” Jim observed. The slow-moving lines did indeed look a lot like their adoptive father’s realm.

“It’s brighter,” Misha said optimistically. “And look!” He slid to the side, and tapped a young woman on the shoulder. “Could I borrow that for a second?” She blinked for a second, then held out her book. “Thank you,” he grinned, then made his way off with it, the other Price following.

Once they were out of sight of the unfortunate woman, Misha stopped and flourished the book. “We don’t have _these_ in the lineups at home, do we?” He flipped it open and squinted down at it. “The print is too small.” He lifted his head, looked up. “I think the lights are just too high up. Come on, I just need sun!”

He made his way off again, a blue of blue jeans and navy shirt, and Jim followed, barely making it into the elevator behind him as the doors closed, and they started to move upwards.

“We’re going to get caught,” he said, leaning his head back.

“Relax,” Misha smiled. “I’ve broken into the White House a thousand times.”

“Yeah, and you never got _out_ without being caught. Dad always has to come and get you.”

Misha didn’t look very concerned.

The doors pinged open on the top floor, and Misha led the way out, book tucked under one arm. The grey door to the outside was clearly marked as alarmed, and Misha’s eyes briefly flashed black as he held out a hand, disabling them. Jim was the one who pushed it open and stepped onto the concrete roof first, tilting his head up to the sunlight.

“Better,” Misha declared, making his way out behind his brother, heading closer to the edge before kicking off his sneakers and folding up his jean-clad legs. “I’ll read.”

Jim sat more delicately, on the edge of one of the square air ducts, hands clasped in his lap. “Go ahead,” he said.

“Okay, so it’s called Watership Down,” Misha said, and then flicked to the first page.

He read aloud about rabbits and burrows and the dangers of men, until the police came to arrest them for attempted robbery of the bank.

Jim, very nobly, did not utter the words ‘I told you so’.


	5. Year Twelve

**Year Twelve**

The first thing that Crowley saw was the blood. It was everywhere, splashed across the walls and sheets, pooling between the stones of the floor.

He would deny, even to himself, the worry that twisted his stomach for a moment, as he pushed the door to his heirs’ bedroom fully open.

There were two things on the floor, that used to be human bodies. Now, Crowley wasn’t sure what he would call them, the mess of muscle and bone and shredded skin barely deserving any cohesive name.

And there was Misha, sitting on the bed, still holding a kitchen knife in a white-knuckled grip. Jim sat beside him, calmly using the sheets to wipe off a variety of blood-stained weapons.

“What…” Crowley began, then paused and began again. “Who were those?” He didn’t have to gesture to the mess on the floor.

“Our bodyguards,” Jim answered simply, continuing his job.

“And why are they… in such a state?”

“They attacked me,” Misha said quietly. “They said I couldn’t be the King. They were waiting for me in our room.”

“They only wanted _him_ ,” Jim snarled. “Thought that I would just stand by.” He twitched out a hand to throw the knife he had been cleaning, and it sank cleanly into one of the lumps on the floor that used to be a demon.

Crowley understood. For years, Hell had had two Princes, two possible Heirs. It was inevitable that some people had gotten attached to the idea of having one or the other as their future King, and when their birth-mother had been brought down, and told Crowley that the blue-eyed baby had been the first-born by seven minutes, it had caused significant unrest.

Crowley thought that it had been mostly over, but he should have known better.

He went to sit between them, on the bloodstained sheets.

“Are you alright?” he asked the blue-eyed Prince.

“I think so.” Misha finally loosened his grip on the knife, letting it fall into his lap. “But they tried to _kill_ me!” Crowley heard the indignation and shock in his voice, and knew that his heir was fine.

“And you?” Crowley turned his gaze to the other, who was still rhythmically running the sheets over the blades, despite the fact that they were as clean as they were going to get.

“I want to kill them again,” Jim hissed, his eyes turning black, as they often did when his temper was high. “And then make them into shoes for Misha to wear when he’s King.”

One thing that Crowley was glad of was that Jim and Misha had never had any competition for the throne, since neither had any real attachment to the title of ‘King’. One way or another, they would both have great power and influence in Hell, and they already did, to an extent.

“Well, I’m sure that there won’t be many more assassination attempts when they see what you’ve made of these unfortunate bastards,” Crowley said.

“But they’ll still be _thinking_ about it!” Jim refused to calm down.

“As long as I’m not dead, I really don’t care,” Misha said reasonably.

The odd family sat in silence for several seconds.

“I’m going to get someone to clean this room up,” Crowley said, pushing himself to standing. “Get dressed, and we’ll have a cup of tea.”

Both boys perked up.

“Meet me in the throne room,” Crowley said.

He left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta-daa, my three chapters for today. 
> 
> You know, I've noticed something about AO3 vs. ff.net. 
> 
> On ff.net, if it's a good chapter, you get at least four or five comments, and it's less often that you get more favourites. But on AO3, it's more common to get Kudos, and even the ones with thousands of Kudos rarely have over 200 comments, total.
> 
> Anyone else notice that?
> 
> Just trying to adjust after two years of purely being an ff.net writer...


	6. Year Sixteen

**Year Sixteen**

 

“Just because _you_ don’t wear it doesn’t automatically mean it’s not _good enough_!”

“Of course it does! I wear the best!”

“You only own one suit! You just change your tie every day!”

“At least I’m not wearing _Westwood_!”

“Well, I am! And I look better than you!”

“I never even told you that you were allowed to buy another suit!”  
  
“I stole it!”  
  
“We are _royalty_! We make _deals_ and we carry through on them, we don’t _steal_!”

“Well, maybe things will change when Misha and I are in charge!”

“I think I’m going to leave when I get older.”

The calm American accent seemed to hit the room with twice the impact of the raised voices, and both of the suited males turned.

Misha leaned in the doorway, in torn jeans, bare feet, and a plain grey t-shirt, looking back at his brother and father without any expression.

“…What?” Crowley said finally.

“I don’t actually want to rule Hell. I want to go to Earth.”

“Should have known,” Jim said darkly, then twisted his voice up into a mocking parody of his brother’s. “ _I want to go to Earth today, I want ice cream, I like humans, I miss the sun, I want to go to_ PARIS!” The last word was spat in Jim’s own voice, which settled down into his natural sing-song cadence. “Misha, I knew you _liked_ the humans, but I never thought you’d want to _be_ one.”

“Oh!” Misha grinned. “Oh, this is awkward. I don’t want to live with humans, that’s not what I meant. I want to take over the world.”

Silence for several seconds.

“You want to rule the _Earth_?”

“Yeah.” Misha crossed one leg in front of him and watched his toes flex against the stone floor. “I’m going to be their Overlord.” After a second, he looked back to his father. “It’ll be fun!”

Crowley shook his head.

“At least you have ambitions,” he said resignedly.


	7. Chapter 7

**Year Twenty**

“I thought you were going to _rule_ them, not help them build houses.”

“It’s an orphanage,” the older twin replied without turning around.

“Oh, I’m sorry. But my point still stands.” Misha sighed and finally turned to face his brother, leaning back against a stack of support beams, soon to be added.

“Dad didn’t want to rule a Hell that was full of blood and noise, so he introduced the lines. _I_ don’t want to rule an Earth filled with people who are too busy struggling to survive to be happy, or interesting, or _fun_.”

“This is _one_ house.”

“Orphanage.”

“One orphanage, then. What good is that?”

“Over a hundred more children will be living with a roof over their heads. Thousands of people in America will see it on the news and social media. A few hundred will join the Peace Corps when they’re older, and they’ll build more.” Misha gestured out to the building site, where dozens of men and women moved over the equipment, each with their own purpose. “This isn’t Hell, where everyone’s dead and every action means nothing. Here, everything’s interconnected, and random acts of kindness can change the whole system.” The older brother paused, thoughtful. “That sounded nice. I should get it on a T-shirt.”

“But you could just… take over, and order things to be different.”  
  
Misha’s smile to his brother was all from his upbringing, and spoke of the demon blood still running through his veins.

“I understand the humans. I know that there’s only one way to rule them; they’re going to have to come to me.” He tilted his head back, ran a hand over his unshaven scruff. “They have to _want_ to be ruled.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” said Jim, tapping one elegantly-toed foot against the other.

Misha laughed.

“Yeah, so do I.”


	8. Year Thirty-Five

**Year Thirty-Five**

 

“That makes no sense. Let me come through.” Misha stared down the two demons blocking his path. “I’m his brother!”

“He told us that no one else was supposed to come in.” The demons looked pretty scared of Misha, recognizing him as the erstwhile heir to the throne, but they had always been more afraid of Jim, and they weren’t going to let him get through and face his wrath.

“Fine.” Misha had been living with the humans for too long, living on their food, without the demon blood that maintained his powers. But that could be changed easily enough, and he wasn’t being kept out of this, no matter what Jim might think.

They weren’t expecting the ex-Prince’s attack.

The strength in his arms and legs had been built through running and swimming, enjoying as much of his Earth as he could. But now they came in for a different purpose, the sound of cracking bone taking him back to his childhood, when he and Jim would be given traitor demons to “play with” and later drink dry.

With both demons on the floor, Misha reached back to the satchel he had almost automatically grabbed on his way out the door. Reaching into the depths, he pulled out a travel mug. After a moment of hesitation, he poured the lukewarm tea out onto the stone floor, then crouched down by one of the demons, flicking open a small Swiss army knife.

Ooooo000ooooO

Minutes later, he made his way down the hallway, with blood soaking into one knee of his jeans, its copper taste filling his mouth. Two other demons came towards him, and Misha pushed a hand in front of him, waited for them to get closer, and then clenched his fingers together. The two black souls curled in his power, twisted inwards, then crashed against themselves. Black ash drifted to the floor, and Misha walked on, his eyes no longer their bright blue but overtaken by unbroken black.

The throne room doors were locked, but Misha twitched his pointer finger at his side, and the heavy double-doors flew open, letting the ex-Prince of Hell pace through.

All around the room, demons lined the walls, all dressed in black dresses and black suits. Misha, in faded jeans and a powder-blue T-shirt, was a smear of colour against the darkness of the room. But he didn’t even glance at the dozens and dozens of powerful creatures, all of whom had tensed at his entrance, ready to attack at the word of their King, who was sitting on the throne sideways, his head tilted back, and white Apple earphones in his ears. A shining crown sat on his head.

When the doors slammed closed behind his twin, Jim slowly raised his head and took out the left earphone, then the right.

“Who told you?” he asked resignedly.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t find out right away?”

“I had hopes.”

“Why wouldn’t you call me?”

“You haven’t talked to either of us in twelve years; I wasn’t sure you’d care.”

“Jim-“ Misha closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and pushed aside his emotions as best he could, ever-aware of their audience. When he opened them again, they were clear blue and unwavering. “He was my father too, you know.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed.” His drawling Irish accent was mocking and sing-song. “Running off as soon as you were old enough, almost never keeping in touch, and refusing to help when we needed you? Teaching the humans about our weaknesses and tricks? Tell me, Misha _Collins_ , how does any of that make you feel like you’re still a part of this family?”

Misha turned his head, letting the accusations make their home inside of him, letting everyone in the room see that he had no defense. And when the echoes faded, he faced his brother again.

“How did it happen?” he asked quietly.

“It doesn’t matter.” Jim had turned his attention to his mp3 player, and was holding the screen close to his face, not looking at Misha any longer.

“It matters to me.”

“Good for you.” Misha looked at his brother, and saw what no one else in the room could. Saw the tensed jaw that spoke of guilt, the high set of his shoulders that was the only sign of his unuttered grief.

There was a silence.

“Why did you come here, brother? To try to claim the throne? You gave up your right to it, turned your back on us.”

“Yes, that’s right.” Misha met his sibling’s eyes, even their human colour so close to demon-black. “Father asked me to kill off half my subjects, over three and a half billion people, to gain Hell’s favor, to give them more power, and I said no. It was a ridiculous request, and any ruler would have done the same.”

“Even for their family?”

“Especially then.” Misha drew himself up, under hundreds of gazes, and only one that mattered. “I never wanted to cut myself off from you. Dad was the one who told me not to bother to stay in touch.”

“We almost lost a war because of you!” There was Jim’s ever-present temper, exploding out at him.

“It wasn’t my responsibility to stop a war that, if my sources were right, you started. It was my duty to protect the people who are just starting to trust me to rule them fairly.”

“It was your duty to help your family!” Jim was on his feet now, pacing down the stairs towards Misha, who didn’t react. He waited. “We needed you!” Jim’s fingers reached out, and Misha felt the blackness of his power close around Misha’s own half-human half-demon soul. He could have fought back, as little good as it would have done, but he didn’t. He waited. “We needed you, and you turned away. And now, you just march in here…” The tendrils of power tightened, twisting. Misha felt his mortal body fall to its knees, but he was barely aware of it, enveloped in pain and helplessness. He waited. “…You walk in here, and he’s dead, like that means it’s all okay now, and you have to be forgiven,” Misha was curled in on himself, the physical response to pain, even though it would do no good against this attack, “but it’s too late, Misha, it’s too late to tell him that you’re sorry or that you loved him or that you screwed up, because he’s dead, and that’s that for that, he died and left me alone, and I didn’t… I never thought that he would…I didn’t think she would be able to kill him…I sent him to her and I never thought...” The pain stopped, even as Jim’s voice petered out like a candle in the rain.

Misha reached out an arm, pushing against the stone floor, testing his ability to support himself. Bit by bit, he unfurled himself, gathering his weight and slowly rising to his feet.

“You’re right,” he said, turning to his twin, whose face had gone blank and distant. “It is too late for us and him. But not for you and me.” Jim blinked, focusing on Misha again, but his twin had already reached for the dimension of the surface, and vanished from Hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha-ha! Bet you didn't expect a huge fall-out. 
> 
> Was it clear enough to everyone what just happened? I was kind of vague on purpose, but the general idea got across, yes? 
> 
> I got a comment and I was super happy, but didn't reply because, well, this chapter is my answer, really. Sorry 'bout the time gap, by the way. My laptop got confiscated and I just got this story off of it... Won't happen again! 
> 
> What do you think? Are they going to make up? Or become enemies?


	9. Year Sixty

** Year Sixty   
**

 

Misha pushed open the side-door to the throne room and froze in the doorway.

His son didn’t notice, and walked directly into his legs, making both of them stumble and almost fall.

“Owww,” he said reproachfully, and Misha jolted into action again, letting the young boy through and then gazing down at him with forced brightness.

“Westie, I want you to go play with your blocks until Uncle Jared gets here, okay? I’ve got someone to talk to.” The young boy looked up at his father, then tilted his head to look at the suited man sprawled across the throne at the heart of the supposedly impregnable palace.

After several seconds of contemplative staring, he turned and made his way over to the bright playroom area in one corner of the throne room, sat down, and started occupying himself with the toys.

Misha walked to the aisle, and paced up it, mirroring the steps that was walked by hundreds of his subjects every day, coming to beg, ask, query, and bring matters to his attention.

The throne wasn’t raised up, not like the one in Hell. Misha didn’t believe in separating himself from his subjects ( _minions_ , the more loyal ones had labeled themselves) more than he had to for maintaining authority. He sat and they stood; that was enough for the power imbalance to be obvious. He didn't need any more than that, any more than he needed armed guards on every door and other precautions a more... human ruler might have. 

So Misha stood face-to-face with his twin, who still looked in his mid-twenties, as did he himself. Children fed with demon milk; human enough to grow, demon enough to never grow old. It meant that Misha and Jim would both live to rule their realms for many centuries, if all went well.

“Jim.”

“Misha.”

The twins stared into each others’ eyes, still so familiar after so many years.

“It’s been a long time,” Misha said finally. _Twenty-five years_ , he didn’t add.

“It has.” Jim looked over to where West was carefully stacking a series of wooden blocks. “You’ve settled down, then?”

“Got married. Vicki has a strong position on the council,” Misha said, shortly but eloquently. “West is almost three. We’ve got another one on the way.”

“ _Very_ nice, Misha. Is he your heir, then?” The father looked back to watch his son knock the tower down again, blocks scattering across the floor.

“He’s been raised human so far.” He turned back. “I’m waiting until he’s fully old enough to even make the choice about whether he wants the…blood. I’m planning to rule the world for a few generations, anyways. Seems pointless to name an heir. To raise someone… like we were raised.”

“How human,” Jim mocked. “There’s nothing wrong with the way we were raised, _brother_.” He only called Misha that when he was angry, but he didn’t quite sound angry now. “Just two half-demon boys running around Hell.”

“The good old days?”

“Oh, _yes_.” Jim grinned and swung his legs around to face him fully. “Weren’t they?”

Misha considered. Here, surrounded by the rollercoaster ups-and-downs of human life, always bright and moving on, those seemed like dark, blood-soaked years. But on they other hand…

“Yes.” He remembered the absolute freedom, the way their actions would have no consequences, because it was Hell, and things didn’t really change in Hell. Not worrying about morality, consequences, or the future, just whatever sounded fun to try. “What are you after, Jim?” He felt the tug of nostalgia, of fondness for his brother, but he also knew his twin well enough to recognize the manipulation.

“It’s been twenty-five years.” Jim shrugged, a motion that used his entire body. “I got perspective. Wanted to see how my brother was doing.” Misha squinted doubtfully at the King of Hell, and then all at once, there was a tentative understanding.

“And you? Have you ‘settled down’? Gotten yourself a Queen, an heir?”

Jim sighed.

“Seems boring. The whole ‘settling down’ thing.”

“I used to think that.” Misha smiled. “Not if you find the right person. Never a dull moment.”

“Hmmm.” Jim looked unimpressed, and Misha understood. He understood the cynicism and the loneliness that had been an ever-present part of his life, until he had met the amazing woman who had never given him a chance for pause, before landing herself a place on the council and in his heart, whipping his priorities into order and changing his entire world again.

“You’re going to have to give back my throne,” Misha said, glancing down at his watch. “The council will be here in ten minutes, and no offense, they don’t really know that I was raised in Hell… I thought they might take issue with it. I’ll tell them next generation, I think. Anyways, the point is, they might be put off by the King of Hell crashing their morning meeting.

“Fair enough.” Jim slid off the throne and made his way past Misha, pausing to order his power, locating himself in the multiverse.

“Wait!” Jim turned at Misha’s voice. “…Do you have a Twitter?”

“The King of Hell on Twitter?” Jim said, disbelievingly. Misha waited. “…Yes,” Jim admitted.

“Good. Follow me.” Misha’s grin hadn’t changed since their childhood. “I’ll follow back, I promise.”

Jim looked at him for several more seconds, trying to identify his twin’s motive, and then nodded, snapped his fingers in a gesture clearly learned from their adoptive father, and Misha was alone.

Well, not _alone_.

“West, don’t put that in your mouth. Actually, let it go. Where did that thing _come from_?”

He honestly doesn’t know how their nanny ever managed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, everyone was probably like "Year Sixty? WTF he's going to be so old!"   
> Nope, they're immortal! Yaay! Young forever!
> 
> And there's another chapter already! 
> 
> Double yaaay!
> 
> If you agree, leave a comment!!


	10. Year Two Hundred

**Year Two Hundred**

“Happy birthday!” Misha said as his twin entered the room, and had the pleasure of seeing him jump a mile in the air.

“ _Misha_ ,” he huffed irritably. “What are you doing here?”

“I made us tea.” He sounded incredibly smug. Behind him, there was indeed a small fold-up table laden with two teapots, two cups and saucers, and an assortment of little scones and cookies.

“My kind of tea, or your kind?” Misha had always drifted to herbal teas, while Jim wanted Irish breakfast teas, with as much sugar as the water could hold.

“It’s both of our birthdays,” Misha said. “So I made both!”

“Well then.” They both sat down, Jim easily guessing that Misha would have put his teapot with the handle turned towards his bed, in subconscious association. A subtle thing, but enough for the genius King to pick up on.

“How long has it been?” Jim asked. Time ran differently for the brothers, and they hadn’t been worrying about staying in touch regularly, drifting in and out of each others’ lives.

“Almost a hundred years since our last chat,” Misha said, leaning back.

“How’s the family?”

Misha considered. “A hundred years ago… You’re asking about Vicki?”

“And your kids… West and Maison, right?”

“Dead,” Misha answered shortly. “Heaven, I guess, since none of my sources found them in Hell, and I’d like to think you would notice.”

“I guess it really _has_ been a long time,” Jim mused. “Humans.”

Misha nodded. “Their lives are so short and… I don’t know, _vibrant_.”

“You remarried?”

“Not quite. After Vicki, there was Jensen. I think you would have liked him.” Misha smiled, his eyes far away. “He always made me laugh. But we never made it official; he didn’t want a position of power, and the whole marriage thing was already going out of fashion on Earth.” Misha blinked, coming back to the present. “He died… a few years ago now. There hasn’t been anyone since, but I’m sure there will be.” His smile was tinged in sadness. “Humans are difficult to love, but it’s always worth it.”

“I don’t know about that.” Jim clinked his cup delicately onto the saucer, gazing at his twin concernedly. “It seems like a lot of pain.”

“Oh, yes. Yes, it’s a lot of that.” Misha laughed, and took another drink of tea. “I guess it’s not for everyone.”

“ _I_ have news.” Jim leaned forwards, grinning.

“Okay. Go.”

“I met someone.”

Misha looked surprised, and then a grin spread across his face.

“Keep going." 

“He’s a demon… Knight of Hell now, actually.”

“Name?”

“Sebastian. He was an American military man, died in the early 2000s, had one of the quickest transitions I’ve ever seen.” Misha wasn’t surprised; the more twisted the soul when it got to Hell, the faster it could be corrupted into demonic. And Jim would only ever fall for the most twisted soul around. It was his nature.

“You’re happy?”

“Incredibly, yes. I even asked him to be my Queen. He didn’t like the idea.”

“I used to tease Jensen about that all the time,” the Overlord of the Earth grinned.

“They’re so sensitive.”

“They _are_ , aren’t they?” And they laughed.

“A toast,” Jim said, and raised his teacup. “To family old and new.”

“To family,” Misha echoed, thinking about children long-grown, about the father that had made him who he was, about the partners who had changed his life, and the brother who had been with him all along.

They drank and smiled.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is now getting into the future of our world. Around 2050 or so, maybe? 
> 
> And the time gaps are getting larger as they get older...
> 
> Actually, there's only one chapter left now.  
> I cried while writing it.   
> Yep.   
> That's right. 
> 
> The next chapter's also got some Sci-Fi elements, since it's year Three Hundred, making it 2150... 
> 
> Anyways. If you have any guesses about the next chapter, any comments on what I've done so far, or any criticism on anything at all, please leave me a comment and I will be happy.   
> Unless it's a flame.   
> Flames make me unhappy.   
> I'm pretty sure they make everyone unhappy.   
> Constructive critiques please!!
> 
> I'm kind of surprised that anyone at all is reading this (it's such a specific little area of fanfic), but I'm very happy you're all enjoying it! 
> 
> See you in a couple weeks for your last chapter...
> 
> *makes a cheesy hand-heart at you because I've been watching too many old danisnotonfire videos*


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